


Not Permitted that We Stay

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angry Sam Winchester, Claiming, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam, Scared Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam licks up his transgressions, tangles his tongue in slick and leans forward, feeds it to Dean, lips pinching and sucking intermittently, humming a song only he knows down Dean’s throat.</p>
<p>Wherein Dean is Sam's offering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Permitted that We Stay

Dean scents demon ichor when Sammy returns home that evening.

Thick and rank, smells like Sam just bathed in garbage, and then ingested it, for good measure. He doesn’t look at Dean when he arrives, hands dripping claret

_is he hurt_

but locks himself in the bathroom immediately. Dean can hear the wheezing sound of the shower, and he stands up, unsteady, ashamed to admit that his eyes are rimmed in red and his children have been restless.

Sam exits, and there’s a void in his brother’s eyes he hasn’t seen before. Sam looks hangdog, and he’s bare, happy trail freshly washed, water cascading down his back, firm abs glistening with the faint residue of soap.

His legs are more dry, hair appearing darker due to the water. He’s only got a pair of hunter green boxers on and they cling wetly to his upper thighs. His cheeks are a little more sunken than usual and he looks as if he’s fought a couple of rounds with the Devil himself.

And won.

Dean’ll have plenty of time to be perturbed later, but now his body betrays him, and he chokes out an crippled sob, opening dull arms to his brother. Dean isn’t expecting Sam’s responding wet hitch of breath, and Alpha strength is tugging him into his brother’s body so roughly he ineluctably snakes a hand in between them to comfort his pups.

Sam’s got his head cradled, and Dean’s face is pressed against his collarbone. Dean’s reigning in his tears, damn pregnancy, and his hands are locked against his brother’s back. He recognizes that a low grade tremor is emitting from Sam’s body.

He doesn’t want to know what’s been going on that has his brother shaken up so badly.

“Sammy?” Voice doesn’t sound like his. Sounds plaintive and frightened.

“Sam. Sammy, where’d you go?” His brother frees him, lets his hands grip Dean’s upper arms before sliding all the way down, clutching weakly at fingertips and releasing.

“Dean, can we not talk about it right now? I promise--” he cups Dean’s jaw, big hand hot to the touch, Dean shakes, “I swear I’ll talk it all out. Just let me breathe for a sec.” Dean’s first instinct is to scream

_the fuck we’ll talk about this later--why the hell did you come back smelling like demon piss_

But he’s tired, and it’s a foreign sort of debilitation, and he reckons it has something to do with the miscreants inside of him, scents augmented now that Daddy is home. They can smell him, feel how close he’s tucked to Papa’s skin.

They quiet down, and Dean feels as if he should be more nonplussed at his awareness of them.

He’s always known where Sammy was, hasn’t he?

Dean banks his fires, crawls into bed that night and doesn’t grumble when Sam locks him into an embrace. Dean’s cheek is nestled between collarbone and chin, and his brother’s hair is falling over top of his own, feather-soft strands gently brushing against his hairline.

Sam breathes out, softly, and he’s not asleep yet.  Dean can sense it in the rigid line of his body, press of his chin on the crown of Dean’s head. Sam’s arm folds around his stomach, reach tentative. “Sam, man,” he begins, body tightening uncomfortably at the invasion of space.

He’s unused to Sam reaching in and grabbing, flexible body cradling and owning, all majesty and thinly tapped dominance. Dean’s got Sam’s peace-scent in his nose, warm, hard line of Sam’s dick resting on his thigh.

“M’sorry I’m this way, Dean.” he says lowly. “I just don’t know how to not have you, anymore.” His laugh is mirthless, above Dean’s head, and the rumble rocks their bodies together gently. Dean shivers, licks his tongue over dry lips. “Shut the hell up, Sam. Not a goddamned animal.” He shoves at his brother’s chest, as hard as he’s able in such a locked position, but there’s no give, there.

Sam sigh-laughs, and this time it’s darker, and there’s a fractal of a growl in it that forces Dean’s spine to stiffen, arches him involuntarily further (how close can he be?) into Sam.

And Sam snarls outright, cups his hands around Dean’s ass until he’s flush, and Dean reddens at the pitiful little mewl that squeaks forth at the ferocity. Sam smells like summertime heat and spun sugar, and Dean’s suffocating in it. Sam’s just a series of nips above him, pushes Dean’s hips up with one hand and jerks boxers down, leaving them just below his cheeks, propping his ass up like an offering.

Dean trembles, flagrant gasps, as there’s no preamble, Sam’s finger snakes deep inside him, crooking brutally as he flutters around, searching for his brother’s prostate. He presses, gentle brush juxtaposed with the rolling waves of warmth Dean can scent. “You know I’ll always take care of you, right?” Dean’s open-mouthed, panting moist air against Sam’s skin, rubs teeth over puffy lips,

“Fucking neanderthal, Sammy. I got arms and legs, I know how to use ‘em.” Dean’s spine cracks as Sam bears down on it, and suddenly the soothing darkness where his face has been huddled is gone, and Sam’s face is lingering above his, eyes onyx and sin. “S’not what I asked, baby.” He nuzzles forward, tongue swirling around Dean’s claiming bite and Dean’s toes curl minutely.

“Breathe--Sam, Jesus Christ--” Sam flips him soundly, severe line of his dick pressing promisingly into the small of Dean’s back. Dean stills, holding his breath at the low grade Alpha tremors he can feel rippling through Sam’s body. His brother wedges one strong leg in between Dean’s thighs, knocks them apart, ricocheting them together like empty beer bottles.

Dean’s omega is alert, stretching out with soft purrs, and Dean responds to Sam’s ministrations with a soft moan. “Can’t fuck me to keep me from--” stutters here, because Sam’s got one hand pressed firmly to the back of his neck, the thumb of his other hand dipping briefly into his furled hole and then retreating

“asking you questions, Sammy, s’not how this works.” Sam hums above him, sets his teeth against exposed skin and nibbles, huffing out little laughs amongst the bites. “You’re talking a lot of shit for someone who’s about to be stuffed full of my knot.”

Dean groans, omega scent of nutmeg and honey, and he presents automatically, the rise of his hips nudging Sammy up along with him, slick sluicing down his inner thighs, collecting on the dark blue sheets. Sam leans down, slides his tongue down Dean’s crack, punching out a surprised grunt from his brother, Dean momentarily losing purchase on the bed.

“Ah, ah,” Sam hushes, iron-like arm wrapping firmly around Dean’s middle and settling him back into his former position. He parts Dean’s cheeks with one hand, index and thumb pulling the fleshy skin apart so Sam can mouth at his opening, serrated stabs that have Dean pressing back shyly for more.

“Taste like fucking sugar, Dean.” He’s smiling, and Dean can feel the difference, feel the cool edge of teeth against sensitive skin. “Wanna make you come, just like this.” He slides his thumb in alongside his tongue, and Dean’s abruptly hyper aware of the slick little slaps his dick’s making as it hits against the underside of his stomach.

“If you’re gonna--little mewl, ripped from the deep--”if you’re gonna do it, then _do it Sammy”_

Sam bites down heavily on the wrinkled hole, incisors pressing home like needles, acuate and cherry, slipping down his cheeks to mingle with his slick.

Dean worships a destructive God.

Sam licks up his transgressions, tangles his tongue in slick and leans forward, feeds it to Dean, lips pinching and sucking intermittently, humming a song only he knows down Dean’s throat.

“I want,” he breathes, through brutal kisses, Dean’s lips tearing under the pressure, “I want every breath you take to remind you of who's been here.”

He straightens, props himself back up on his knees and slips his dick in between Dean’s spread cheeks, covering it in the mess that is muddled there. Wraps a thick hand around Dean’s left hip and stabs home, guttural grunt the only sound, cause Dean’s mouth is open in a soundless O.

“I’m not fucking sure,” swivels his hips violently, pitching Dean forward as he cries out, “what they don’t understand about this.” Sam curves his body down over Dean’s back, draping himself like a blanket of sin, all decadence and brawn. Undiluted majesty.

“I’ve told them.” He’s grunting in between thrusts, bending Dean’s back even further into an unnatural position, Dean’s dick trapped between his overheated stomach and the sheets, red line of hot flames.

“I told everyone. I’ll fight heaven and fucking hell, Dean. I’ll look into the face of Lucifer himself, because they can’t--have--you!”

Dean’s crying indistinct tears, stuttered gasps against his pillow, rubs himself off as best he can as his cock quivers and comes all across the bedsheets underneath them. He’s making aborted mewls under Sam, ass clamping down on his brother’s dick, weaponized moment.

Sam’s tied them together, stretches his entire body over Dean’s, hums the word mine into his skin, licks at his freckles and maps out constellations. Dean’s pups are rowdy, happy-scent of Maple Syrup and slightly pleased scent from Lilac, all intermingled with claiming smell.

Dean presses back against Sam’s knot mischieviously, and his brother cuffs him gently, shocked little groan caught in his throat. “Don’t start that game with me, Dean, you know I’ll win.” He’s teasing, shiny words, but there’s a challenge in there.

Sam’s hungry.

“Your fucking kids are happy. Can you scent ‘em?” Sam pops up behind him, careful to keep his knot stationary, and leans over Dean’s shoulder, like he’ll be able to see the pups better from that angle. “They like it when Daddy breeds Papa?” The words come out dirty-filthy, seeping his brother’s voice in carnality.

“They’re not even born yet and you’re corruptin’ ‘em, Sammy.” Sam kisses Dean’s earlobe with a jagged smile, pleased.

“Gonna tell me what that was all about?” Dean poses the question cautiously, no desire to ruin the first content moment they’ve been able to share together. Sam hums noncommittally, hand rubbing Dean’s shoulder blade in small half-circles.

“I just love you so damn much, Dean.”

**Author's Note:**

> ;) thanks for reading my corner of filth.


End file.
